


If the Mockingjay Won't Sing

by Drag0nst0rm



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Bad Parenting, Character Death, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mentioned Galadriel, Mentioned Maedhros, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-04 01:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17888552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm
Summary: There aren't many of Finwe's descendants left in District 4. Not after the Dark Days.Those that are left get on as best they can.(It isn't all that well.)





	If the Mockingjay Won't Sing

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own either of these franchises.

Maglor wondered sometimes what would have happened if he’d told Maedhros _no_ when he wanted to go on one last suicide mission. If he’d tied his last brother to a chair and said, _It’s over, they’re dead, and we can’t bring them back. Uncle Finarfin has surrendered; we should too._

He’d argued, a bit, but he’d given in and gone.

Only it hadn’t been a suicide mission. Not entirely. They’d achieved their goal, and Maedhros had died, but Maglor - 

Maglor was left to wander the shores of District Four alone.

 

That first Games, they hadn’t thrown children in. Just rebels. And who better to throw in than the last living son of Feanor?

Maglor hadn’t gone in intending to win. He hadn’t grabbed a single weapon from the pile. He’d just run, as far and fast as he could.

His mistake had been in singing, he was pretty sure. The Games hadn’t been meant for entertainment, not back then, but he’d entertained them anyway, and he thought that might be why the Gamemakers had just let him run.

His mistake had been in singing, but he couldn’t have done anything else. It was the only possible hope he’d ever had of staying sane.

They’d let him run. Let him live. Maybe because of the music. Maybe because they thought it was better to let him live on as a broken reminder than die as a blazing martyr.

Like Father had. Like Maedhros had. Like he should have.

He’d run and run until he was one of the last three and the other two had cornered them.

He didn’t remember much about that.

Only that apparently, when cornered, he did still want to live.

 

They gave him a house to live in. Money to live on. 

He dragged Celebrimbor there and let him do what he wanted with it. Maybe his nephew, still so full of hopeful fire, could make something of it.

Maglor just wanted to stay near enough to the waves that the roar of the waves drowned out the ghosts.

 

Celebrimbor was fifteen when he was reaped, and he was determined that no one really had to kill anyone else in the Games. He’d gone in with plans for a grand alliance despite all Maglor’s desperate advice against it.

It almost worked. It might could have actually worked.

But Annatar tore that all apart. Tore him apart.

He had the gall to smile at Maglor the next year when the few victors that had so far accumulated gathered together. “No hard feelings?”

Maglor smiled back. “None at all.”

His feelings weren’t hard, they were sharp.

Sharp like the whispers he spread of Annatar and treason. Maglor was popular in the Capital. It wasn’t hard to get the whispers into the right ears.

Annatar was good at the game, but Maglor had a head start.

Within three years, Annatar disappeared.

It wasn’t what Celebrimbor would have wanted, but it was what Curufin’s ghost had demanded, so Maglor had done as best he could.

 

Finarfin invited him over to supper sometimes. Maglor wasn’t sure why. As mayor, Finarfin certainly had the food to spare, but so did Maglor; there could be no familial obligation in it, at least of that sort.

Earwen was always the perfect hostess, like nothing had changed, a much more convincing front than the strained facade Finarfin kept up over the smoldering ruins Maglor could glimpse in his eyes. For his part, Maglor was cheerfully, politely vicious.

He was always careful to keep up that cheer, though, and the smile. Whatever his feelings towards his uncle, there was no point in agitating the ever silent, scarred Finrod who stared into nothing, flinched at loud noises, and had to be coaxed by his mother into every bite. He didn’t seem to understand the words, just the tone, so Maglor kept his tone light and easy even as he turned his words into knives.

It wasn’t Finrod’s fault that the Capital had discovered that his life was Finarfin’s price.

 

He and Finarfin had discussed it once. Only once, when they’d met by accident at the endless rows of graves.

“Do you understand at all?” Finarfin had asked desperately. “I know why you think I did it, but we had lost, Maglor. There was nothing to be gained but more death. Can you see why - ?”

Of course I can see why. I felt exactly the same. Why do you think I hate you so much?

Maglor hadn’t told him that, of course. He’d said something viciously polite, or possibly the other way around, and had walked away.

 

He wondered sometimes what Galadriel would have thought. He couldn’t ask her, of course. Last they’d heard of her, she’d been off being brilliant with District 13’s best scientists.

Then the Captital’s bombs had come and blown them all away.

 

Earendil thought differently.

It was a source of constant surprise to Maglor that Earendil, Fingolfin’s last descendant, had managed to make it to 19. His name had never once been reaped. Instead, he’d managed to make it through safely, became the best sailor on the coast even at his young age, and married Elwing, who had no family left at all.

And now it seemed Earendil had thrown it all away on this crazy idea that District 13 might still be out there somewhere.

Maglor would have tried to stop him, but by the time he found out, his second to last cousin was already gone.

 

It turned out Elwing was pregnant. Maglor cursed Earendil’s name and helped out as he could. Finarfin did the same.

Maglor suspected that Finarfin felt guilty because he’d secretly hoped Earendil had been right.

Only Elwing remained convinced.

She was still convinced six years later when a day after the twins’ birthday she left them with a friend and marched out to find her husband.

Six months later, she hadn’t come back either, and they had to decide what to do with the twins.

 

Finarfin couldn’t take them. Not with Finrod to look after. And Maglor … Maglor was in no condition to take care of children. They were better off in the orphanage.

Or so he thought, right up until he saw said orphanage. And then … 

Well. He did his best. The twins were better fed and clothed than any other children in the district at least, and he told them stories every night about the adventures their parents were having as they fought to get back to them.

When they were twelve years old, Elros told him that they knew their parents weren’t coming back and that he wanted to hear about the Dark Days instead.

Three days later, Maglor finally tore himself away from the shore and came back to find both the twins full of desperate apologies and promises not to ask again and to listen to any story he liked.

He was a terrible substitute for their parents, and he knew it. This last incident proved it if nothing else had.

He told them haltingly about the Dark Days. It was the best apology he could think to give.

 

When they were twelve and six months, Elros was reaped.

Maglor understood then, in a way he’d only thought he’d understood before, just why Finarfin had surrendered. He’d give anything, anything at all, to save Elros.

But he had nothing to offer, and he already knew there was no way he’d be able to bring a twelve year old tribute home.


End file.
